Daddy. Won’t you be my daddy? Daddy. I need a daddy. Daddy. Won’t you be my daddy? Daddy.’* I loved that song. It was that song wetter by Twista... I played the song as I ironed my clothes for school. I just turned eighteen years old and I live on my own since my parents died and left the house to my name. When Ja’Quan woke up, I was in the shower now playing O by Omarion, with the stereo on full blast. I guess he liked the songs I was playing ’cause when I stepped out da bathroom, he was. She was braless, wearing a short, tight tank top, a camisole, really, that showed to full effect her creamy white cleavage, and you could clearly see her nipples trying to burst through the thin fabric. You wanted to just bury your face between her fleshy mounds and suffocate in those breasts. The best part, though, were those two pencil-thin shoulder straps, the only things holding the top in place; they hinted at promises of delight just under the thin fabric. The shirt left a slim line of. More

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